The Darkest Hour: A Novel

by Tony Schumacher

  The docker took two steps forward and Rossett took one back and raised both hands in front of him, careful to keep them open, palms out.

  “I’m a policeman. Trust me, you don’t want the trouble.”

  “I don’t care if you’re Sherlock fucking Holmes.”

  Another step forward.

  Rossett planted his back foot and kept his hands outstretched. The docker raised his fists and lowered his head even more, and Rossett knew there was no going back now. They were going to fight.

  Drunk or not, a clarity descended on him. He felt everything else slipping from view and only saw the big man in front of him. The sounds of distant traffic faded. Even the fog seemed to lift. Jacob drifted from the place at the back of his mind where he’d been all day, and even the weight of the sovereigns seemed to lighten. He could feel the pavement under his feet through his shoes, feel his toes curl to find purchase, and feel the adrenaline reach out from his core to fuel every part of his body.

  Rossett knew one thing in life, one thing more than any other: he knew how to fight.

  The docker stepped in again and this time Rossett took a half step forward, dropped his head, and slammed his open palms against the massive chest, sending the other man stumbling backward three or four steps. Rossett didn’t advance; he just drew back his hands, right held open next to his cheek, left extended eighteen inches in front of his face, still holding the lit cigarette.

  He didn’t speak or move, he just waited.

  He didn’t wait long. The docker regained his balance, paused, then charged back across the ground he had just given. Rossett dipped his left shoulder and with a slight pivot on his toes slipped his right fist through the big man’s hands and landed it square on his nose.

  The docker’s head recoiled and he stumbled back. Rossett withdrew one step back and a half to the left, both hands open, exactly where they had been before the rush, as he waited to see how the docker reacted.

  A lot of men have never been punched square in the face. They might have had fights in the school yard or scuffles in a pub, but most have never felt the mind-numbing explosion of pain that comes with a good right fist square on the nose. They’ve never had their brain shut down for a second and then spark back to life with a white-hot flash of pain that makes their eyes water and their ears ring. Rossett had learned over the years that there are two types of men in a fight: those who you can stop with one good punch . . . and those that keep coming.

  He stood, hands held high, and waited to see which one he was facing.

  The docker reached a tentative hand to his nose and tilted his head forward to meet it. Rossett took another step to the left and waited and watched as the docker inspected his fingers for blood, finding none. He looked up at Rossett, confused by the speed of the punch and the pain that was making his eyes water.

  Rossett considered stepping in and finishing the fight but decided to wait. He wanted to give his opponent the chance to go back into the pub, finish his drink, and lick his wounds as he told his pals he’d chased Rossett off with a kick up the arse.

  Rossett didn’t want to fight anymore.

  Unfortunately, the docker did.

  The big man grunted and raised his hands. Moving slower than he had before, he turned to face Rossett. Having learned his lesson from the charge he’d made before, he slowly took a step forward as Rossett took another to the left.

  “I don’t want to fight,” Rossett said, aware now that words were useless but trying them anyway.

  The docker tracked Rossett as he took another step to the left.

  “Stand still.” The docker finally spoke, his voice thick and nasal as he tried to catch his breath.

  Rossett decided to finish it.

  “Sounds like I’ve broken that nose, do you want me to straighten it for you?” Rossett said, and the big man snorted and charged forward again.

  Rossett feinted left and took a half step to the right. The docker, who was by now used to turning left, followed the feint and caught a left hook from Rossett as he closed in. Once again the punch landed square on that broken nose. The docker’s legs gave way as his brain shut down for the second time in a minute. He landed face first on the pavement after dropping like a dead weight. Rossett danced away, enjoying the punch he’d just thrown but casting a glance toward the pub in case reinforcements were coming out.

  The docker lay on the wet cobbles for a moment, groaning; he slowly rolled onto his side and reached up to his face to check if it was still there. Rossett lowered his hands and watched. Fight over, adrenaline high, he realized he’d enjoyed the moment, then suddenly felt guilty as he looked at the man in front of him on the ground.

  Rossett noticed the squashed cigarette still half held in his fist and flicked it away, then rubbed his hands together, feeling for the first time that the knuckles of his right were sore.

  He crossed and offered his left hand. The docker stared in confusion for a moment, his senses still muddled, then recognized Rossett and waved him away,

  “I’m all right.”

  “You’re not. Come on, here.” Rossett offered his hand again but the docker ignored it and somehow managed to push himself onto all fours. He knelt there for a moment, head bowed, and then looked up at Rossett, who offered his hand again. This time the docker took it.

  Rossett heaved the big man to his feet and steadied him as he swayed, senses still scrambled. His nose was a mess, swollen and red with a deep cut at its bridge, blood and snot bubbling from one nostril. On his forehead, Rossett could see a swelling he guessed was a result of hitting it on the cobbles when he went down. The docker touched the lump, flinched, then touched his nose and looked at his fingertips, which now were dipped bloodred.

  “I’m sorry.” Rossett took out his handkerchief.

  The docker took it and wiped his nose, pulling a face, and, as he did, a thick greasy bubble of snot and blood popped from his nostril and soaked the cloth, and his nose began to bleed hard as something unseen gave way. The docker swayed at the sight of the blood. Rossett took his arm, led him toward the Austin, and leaned him against its side.

  “Hold the hankie against it and tilt your head. Should I go get one of your pals?”

  The docker shook his head.

  “I’m surprised they didn’t come out to help you.” Rossett glanced toward the pub, whose doors remained firmly closed.

  “I fight my own battles,” the docker replied, looking up into the night, bloodred hankie clutched to his face like an oxygen mask.

  “Well, you look like you fought this one all right. Do you want me to help you back inside?”

  The big man shook his head. He’d just been humiliated outside, he didn’t want to be humiliated inside as well.

  “I can’t leave you here on your own. That bump looks nasty.”

  The docker touched the lump again. It had visibly swollen in the seconds since he’d last checked. He lowered the hankie and looked in it like someone panning for gold, then up at Rossett.

  “I don’t live far. I’ll walk home,” he lied badly, as another snotty bubble burst forth.

  “Let me drive you?”

  “I’ll walk.”

  “You can’t stand up, let alone walk. Look, I’m sorry, please let me drive you.”

  Rossett opened the door of the car and eased the big man toward the seat before he had a chance to resist. Still dazed, the docker gave way and almost fell into the car, allowing himself to be led like a child. Rossett slammed the door, causing the docker to flinch, and another fat gob of blood dripped out onto his top lip as Rossett ran around the car and jumped in. He glanced across at the docker, who was leaning back in the seat, hankie raised and eyes closed.

  “Are you all right?”

  The docker nodded slightly but didn’t open his eyes.

  “Where are we going?”

 
“Battersea.”

  Rossett started the car and edged his way out into the fog and toward the main road. The adrenaline was subsiding and he was suddenly aware that he was drunk, very drunk. The car’s headlamps did little more than bounce back off the dirty yellow fog, and he was relieved to find he could just about make out the rear lights of the cars on the main road when he turned onto it. The two men overheated the interior of the car, and Rossett had to wipe at the window with the back of his hand as he drove. He risked the odd glance at his passenger, who remained silent. After a few minutes, he was relieved to see the docker tilt his head forward and inspect the handkerchief again.

  “Has it stopped bleeding?”

  “Just about. That was a corker of a punch you got me with.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Both of ’em nearly took my block off.”

  Rossett glanced across, and, in the half-light, he could see the mess he’d made of the other man’s nose. He shook his head.

  “You should get something cold on that.”

  The docker touched it again, like it was an unexploded bomb, and then smiled at Rossett.

  “Jim Parker.” He held out his bloody hand.

  “Rossett.”

  They shook, and Parker touched the lump on his forehead.

  “You knocked me out cold there, Mr. Rossett. I went down like a sack of spuds.”

  “Rossett will do.”

  “Don’t you have a first name?”

  “We can stop for ice if you want?”

  Parker glanced at Rossett.

  “I’ll be all right, I reckon. Bit of swelling will teach me a lesson.”

  “I’m sorry about knocking your pint. I overreacted, it’s been a bad day.”

  “It was me who overreacted. I shouldn’t have followed you out, after you said sorry.”

  The two men nodded to each other, apologies accepted.

  “Terrible night after a terrible day, eh?” Parker finally said.

  “To be honest, I was drowning my sorrows in the pub. I didn’t want to go home.”

  “Trouble with the missus?”

  “No, work.”

  “Looks like I did you a favor following you out then?”

  Rossett smiled.

  “You did take my mind off things.”

  “You’re welcome, chum,” Parker replied, touching his nose and shaking his head, “although it would’ve been easier if you’d just told me. I would’ve just bought you a drink instead.”

  Both men smiled as Rossett wiped the windshield with the back of his hand again. They turned south and crossed the river heading for Battersea, and Parker pointed occasionally, giving directions as they neared his home. Eventually, they pulled up in a terraced street filled with dimly lit back-to-back, two-up-two-down houses.

  Rossett stopped outside Parker’s but didn’t kill the engine. He turned and offered his hand to shake.

  “No hard feelings?”

  “Already forgotten, but I’ll not shake your hand till we’ve had a drink together. Come inside and have a quick one before you go?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Come on, you said you didn’t want to go home yet. Just a quickie?”

  Rossett glanced at the house and pondered for a moment.

  “I’m half drunk as it is, I should really be—”

  “Come on, cup of tea then. My missus will have laid out some dinner by now. Besides, I might need you; she’ll give me another hiding if I walk in like this. Come on, nice cup of tea?”

  Rossett smiled and nodded.

  “Just a cup of tea.”

  Both men got out of the car, and Rossett waited by the front door as Parker made his way toward him. The big man still looked unsteady and had to rest his hand on the car’s hood as he stepped onto the curb.

  “Stand by,” said Parker as he opened the front door, which led directly into the parlor of the tiny house.

  Rossett felt the heat of the coal fire that was crackling in the hearth as soon as he entered. The room was tidy and furnished in a manner that many would have called old-fashioned, but that Rossett would have called homely. Two comfy but threadbare armchairs framed the fireplace, and the thin woolen rug that lay at their feet was the only carpeting in the room. The solitary lightbulb burned under an orange tasseled shade that gave off a glow almost as warming as the fire, and a fat lazy cat glanced up from a tiny two-seater settee with slow blinks and a wide yawn.

  Rossett liked the room. It felt like one fit for a family, like a room that had sheltered a lot of love.

  “Is that you, Jim?” a woman shouted from the kitchen. “You’re home early.”

  Parker cast a glance at Rossett and rolled his eyes.

  “I’ve brought a visitor, love.” Parker smiled at Rossett. “That’s my Queenie.”

  Before he finished his sentence the woman appeared at the door that led to the kitchen. She was a similar age to Parker, maybe a few years younger. Her face wore the weight of a hard life, although it wasn’t a hard face. She smiled at Rossett before turning to Parker and gasping.

  “Oh my lor’, Jim, what’s happened to your face?” She stepped forward and reached for her husband.

  Rossett frowned and regretted agreeing to go into the house.

  “A gang of geezers tried to have me off. Good job Rossett here was passing by, else they would have done.”

  “What would they want with having you off?”

  “Well, we had words, see. It wasn’t nothing. Mr. Rossett stepped in to help. We saw ’em off though, didn’t we?” Parker looked at Rossett for backup, and Rossett smiled thinly and nodded, aware, after being a copper for so long, that the best way to lie was not to say anything.

  Queenie looked at Rossett, then her husband. Rossett knew immediately that she wasn’t as daft as her husband hoped. She gave the slightest of shakes of her head and then led Parker to one of the armchairs and pushed him down. He sat, fitting the armchair like a glove.

  “I’m all right, girl, just a bruise or two, that’s all.”

  Queenie prodded the lump on his head, and Parker yelped and put his hands up to cover it.

  “At your age, Jim Parker, fighting in the street?” She looked across to Rossett and nodded to the other armchair. “Sit.”

  Rossett found himself doing as he was told, and Parker smiled at him.

  “I warned you.”

  Rossett was beginning to like these people.

  “I’VE ONLY GOT A DROP OF RABBIT STEW, MR. ROSSETt,” Queenie called from the kitchen as Rossett balanced the teacup and saucer on his leg while holding a plate of biscuits in his other hand.

  The fat cat was now sitting in front of him, back to the fire, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “I really should be going.”

  “Nonsense, you can stay for a bite. You were good enough to bring my Jim home, least I can do is feed you.”

  Rossett looked around for somewhere to put the biscuits he’d been holding for the last five minutes without eating. He stood, stepped over the cat, and placed the plate down on a yellowing cotton tablecloth that half covered the dark brown wood.

  On the table, next to some tired flowers, was a photo in a frame, of a young man in uniform. Rossett squinted at it, trying to make out the badge on the beret its subject was proudly wearing. He was holding the picture when Queenie walked in with some cutlery.

  Rossett showed her the picture. “Your son?”

  “My Arthur.”

  Rossett knew from her tone that Arthur wouldn’t be joining them for supper that night, or any night ever again.

  “The war?”

  She nodded sadly, and Rossett put the picture back on the table carefully.

  “Did you serve, Mr. Rossett?”

  Rossett nodded without looking at her.

&n
bsp; “Such a terrible waste.”

  She put the cutlery on the table and left the room. Rossett returned to his seat, took a sip of tea, and stared at the cat, which stared back at him, blinking slowly again, as if it missed Arthur, too.

  Rossett heard the clump of big feet coming down the stairs and looked to the kitchen door as Jim entered. He’d washed his face and changed his shirt, but the dirty purple bruises under his eyes were darkening by the minute.

  “I should be getting along.”

  “Don’t be daft, she’s warming that stew now. Here, have a tot.”

  Jim bent down to a small cabinet and produced a bottle of brandy. He crossed the room in two steps and poured a drop in Rossett’s tea before Rossett had a chance to cover it.

  “Nice for her to make a fuss every now and then.”

  Rossett sighed and glanced to the door as Queenie entered with a breadboard and loaf. She placed it on the table, moving the picture of Arthur back a few inches to make way.

  “Mr. Rossett was asking about our Arthur, Jim,” she said as she headed back out into the kitchen.

  “My eldest.” Jim remained standing, holding the bottle like a wine waiter looking for a glass. “Joined up before the war, Royal Engineers. The bastards got him on the road back to the beach; he was trying to blow a bridge to slow them down.”

  Rossett subconsciously moved his hand to his lapel, feeling for the swastika badge; it wasn’t there, lost in the fight.

  “Terrible days” was all he could think of to say as he took another sip of tea.

  “Were you over there?”

  Rossett nodded.

  “Did you make it out or were you captured with the others in France?”

  “I made it out, for what it was worth. I finally got captured outside London after the surrender.”

  The men looked at each other and paused in the way that everyone seemed to do since the war, unsure of what to say, unsure of where they stood, scared to criticize governments past or present for where it might lead.

  They settled on a silent nod of understanding and left it there.

  Queenie reentered and frowned when she saw the brandy.